Page 16 of His Emotional Support Snack

His fingers clamp tighter around my wrist, locking my bones in a vice of soft leather and unyielding iron. He does not let go. The sharp, grazing point of a fang drags over the open wound, sending a jolt of primal terror straight into my marrow. A predator tasting a fresh kill.

I twist my shoulder, pulling with every ounce of strength left in my trembling frame. "Release me."

Zuirvih ignores the demand. He takes another slow, agonizing pull from my vein, swallowing the blood that just neutralized the lethal green venom.

The sickly, ash-grey pallor of his face transforms beneath the ambient glow of the nursery. Color rushes into his cheeks, a vital, terrifying flush of health banishing the ghostly white. The putrid black lines marking his throat sink beneath the skin, retreating from the jawline, fading into nothingness. His chest expands, drawing in a long, rattling breath of oxygen, unhindered by the necrotic poison that had him choking on the floor just moments ago.

He raises his head.

The feverish, dying haze in his eyes is gone. Glowing violet irises lock onto my face, blazing with a lucid, predatory light I have never witnessed. It is a look of total, consuming obsession. A starving beast discovering an endless feast.

"Let me go." The words scrape past my lips, my voice cracking down the center.

The stoic, unshakeable facade I wear like armor shatters. A violent tremor wrecks my vocal cords, broadcasting the pure, unadulterated fear rising in my throat. I am no longer facing a dying lord. The vulnerability is erased. I am trapped in the grip of a resurrected monster, and he is staring at me as if he plans to devour me whole.

Boot steps thunder in the corridor.

The splintered remains of the nursery doors crunch under armored tread. Commander Jarek bursts into the room, twin curved blades drawn. A squad of Miou warriors floods the threshold behind him, eyes sweeping over the scattered ash, the dead assassin bleeding out near the crib, and finally landing on us.

"My lord!" Jarek halts, taking in the blood smeared across Zuirvih’s lips.

Zuirvih does not break eye contact with me. He does not turn his head to address his elite guard.

"Out."

The single syllable vibrates with reclaimed, overwhelming authority. The ozone tang of his magic surges, a wall of invisible pressure pushing outward, rattling the unbroken glass of the windows. There is no tremor in his voice, no rasp of decaying lungs.

Jarek snaps his blades downward, bowing his head in immediate submission. The commander takes a sharp step backward, signaling the squad into the hall. They retreat without a single question, dragging the ruined remnants of the oak doors shut as much as the broken hinges allow, sealing us back into the dim nursery.

The room spins.

Blood loss catches up in a sudden, sickening swoop. My vision blurs into static. The silver luminescence in my veins flickers, the Wildspont magic receding back into dormancy, leaving behind the biting, agonizing sting of the torn flesh. My knees buckle.

Before I can hit the rug, Zuirvih moves.

His hands slide from my wrist, one arm wrapping around my waist, the other scooping behind my knees. He lifts me into the air effortlessly, cradling my weight against his chest. The midnight-blue velvet of his tunic is warm, humming with the steady, powerful rhythm of a restored heart.

I push against his shoulder, my fingers slipping on the expensive fabric. "Put me down. Kalan⁠—"

"The boy is unharmed. Vesper guards him." His voice is a low, hypnotic purr rumbling through my own chest.

He crosses the room, carrying me away from the carnage, bypassing the silver candelabra and the pooling gore. He stops beside the velvet-draped daybed in the corner of the nursery and lowers me onto the mattress.

I try to scramble backward, desperate to put distance between us, but my limbs turn to water. The room tilts on a dizzying axis.

Zuirvih leans over me, his frame caging me against the pillows. He ignores my useless struggling. He catches my bleeding arm, his grip gentler this time, but just as inescapable. He reaches down with his free hand, gripping the hem of his ruined tunic. With a sharp, violent pull, he tears a long strip of the fine silk from his own clothing.

He wraps the makeshift bandage around my forearm.

The pressure is firm, meticulous. His long fingers smooth the silk over the gash, staunching the flow of crimson. A startling, terrifying gentleness from a creature who just pulverized a dark elf into ash. He ties the fabric off, his thumbs brushing the pale scars bisecting my inner arm.

He traces the path where the silver light just burned.

"What are you?"

The question is a hushed, obsessive whisper. He leans closer, his face hovering mere inches from mine. The scent of ozone, spiced wine, and dark blood radiates from him.

I press my shoulder blades flat against the mattress, my chest heaving. Plausible deniability is the only shield left. If he understands the true value of my blood—if he realizes I hold the antidote to the Marrow-Rot—I will never leave this estate. I will be locked in a gilded vault, drained drop by drop to keep the master of Vhoig breathing.